


New Beginnings

by sara_wolfe



Series: Winteriron Week [7]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Service Dogs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-07-24 23:34:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20022841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sara_wolfe/pseuds/sara_wolfe
Summary: Bucky runs a service dog training center. Tony needs a PTSD dog.





	New Beginnings

**Author's Note:**

> For Winteriron Week, day 7: new beginnings

The sign on the front of the door reads ‘New Beginnings’. 

It seems like kind of a misleading sign, Bucky thinks, taking in the faded, cracking wood on the windowsills, the way the letters on the door are peeling away from the glass, and the filthy brick front. It’s clear this building hasn’t seen any new beginnings of its own in quite some time. 

It’s absolutely perfect. Or, at least, he thinks it could be. 

“Now, I know this doesn’t look like much,” the real estate agent says, breaking into Bucky’s thoughts, “but I promise, what this space lacks in charm on the outside, the inside more than makes up for.”

“You said you’re starting a non-profit right?” the real estate agent counters, as she unlocks the front door and ushers Bucky inside. “Then you’re going to be living off donations, and a little charm can go a long way to making rich people want to open their wallets and give you money.”

So saying, she flicks on the lights and illuminates the inside of the room - and Bucky finds himself speechless. He hadn’t really had a concrete idea of what he wanted when he first contacted the real estate office, but this is everything he could have imagined. A huge open space in the middle for classes. Windows all along the front wall that he hadn’t noticed from outside because they were so dirty, but will let in a ton of light once they’re cleaned up. A hallway that leads to a set of private offices in the back, some of which will be perfect for quiet areas for his clients to get away from the group and have time to themselves. An even larger back area that can be converted into living spaces. 

“And the best part,” the real estate agent says, as if she’s reading Bucky’s mind while they walk through the building, “this is what I really wanted to show you.”

She unlocks one more door and Bucky steps out into paradise. 

The building not only backed up against a large, grassy lot, the two areas were apparently part of the same lot. He wouldn’t just have room for his training center, he’d have space for the dogs to actually live and thrive here until they found permanent homes. 

“This place started out as a daycare center,” the real estate agent tells him, “which is when they acquired the grassy area. Used to be a play area for the kids.”

“Now it’ll be a play area for a different kind of kid,” Bucky joked. Then, he turned to the one person whose opinion of the place mattered most of all. “What do you think, Giz? Think this is gonna work for us?”

Gizmo’s ear perk up as she looks up at him from where she was lying patiently at his feet. At his gesture releasing her, she bounds up and runs a quick circuit around the grass like she’d clearly been dying to, and then she’s back and pressed up against his legs. Bucky laughs at the happy look on her face, reaching down and ruffling the fur behind her ears. 

“I think my partner approves,” he says, making the real estate agent smile. She smiles even wider when he adds, “I’ll take it.”

* * *

Starting a service dog training center hadn’t originally been his idea. It hadn’t even been getting Gizmo that had started things. Instead, it had been an offhand comment from Sam, about how lucky Bucky had been to find Gizmo at the shelter and how responsive she’d been to training, about how he could have wound up spending tens of thousands of dollars for a service dog if he’d tried to get one already trained, and insurance wouldn’t have chipped in a penny. 

That comment had stuck with him, and he’d spent a lot of time thinking about it before deciding he wanted to do something about it. He wanted to help other people find the peace and security he’d found with Gizmo, without having to bankrupt themselves to do it. So he’d gotten certified as a service dog trainer and started making plans for what to do next. He’d drawn up a business plan, solidified details with Sam’s help, and started looking at places to rent. 

Now, a month and a half after signing the final papers on the building, Bucky stands on the sidewalk in front of his new place, beaming happily. The outside of the building sparkles just as much as the inside, now, bright colors everywhere and windows that shine like jewels. And the inside’s even more impressive than it first was: warm, and comforting, and still every bit functional as Bucky could have hoped for. He’s even got his first service dog prospects, a couple of six-month-old pups who are smart and eager to learn. 

He keeps the name that was on the building when he first saw it. He likes the promise of New Beginnings.

* * *

He gets his first donation two weeks after he first opens the doors. 

Getting that notification on his phone actually makes him do a little dance, right there in the open where anyone can see him. Steve laughs so hard that he chokes on water and Sam rolls his eyes, but Bucky’s not about to let them dampen his enthusiasm. His first donation is a big thing, and even if it’s just ten bucks, he’s happy that people want to support his little center. 

It’s not ten bucks.

There is a ten in that number. But then there’s a comma, and a lot of zeroes. Like, seriously, an unholy number of zeroes. Enough zeroes that Bucky carefully taps each one on his phone screen, just to make sure he’s counting them properly. He counts them three times. The number stays the same each time.

“What’s wrong?” Steve asks, but Bucky’s not capable of actual speech at the moment so he just passes his phone to Steve. 

Then, he buries his head in his hands and tries to remember how to breathe through the thing he doesn’t want to call a panic attack, because can you really have a panic attack over good news? Apparently the answer is yes, because Gizmo’s worming her way into his arms just like she was trained, sitting her full weight down on his lap - and what was he doing down on the floor, he can’t remember even moving - and he wraps his arms around her and buries his face in her soft fur and reminds himself that he’s fine, and he’s safe, and his heart can stop trying to pound out of his chest any time now. 

When he finally feels like he’s not going to pass out, Bucky looks up to see Steve and Sam alternating looks between him and whatever paper they’re scribbling on. Bucky pulls himself to his feet and looks over Sam’s shoulder to see that it’s his budget, and they’re comparing it to the number on his phone. Even just thinking about that number is enough to make him feel dizzy, so Bucky deliberately flips his phone over so he can’t see it and takes a deep, steadying breath. 

“I think I need to find a financial manager,” he says.

“A really, really good financial manager,” Sam agrees.

* * *

They’ve been open for six months. 

In that time, Bucky’s had a few dozen clients come through the doors. Some bring their own dogs, some come looking for him to find the perfect dog for them, all of them leave with a new look in their eyes, a lightness that hadn’t been there before. 

Bucky’s also got an actual staff, now. Before, he’d been hoping to attract volunteers, but thanks to continuing donations and revenue, he’s able to actually pay them salaries. They’re still a small staff, just him, Steve, Sam, and three others, but it’s more than he’d previously let himself imagine.

He’s got another new client coming in today. The man had sounded hesitant when he’d called and made the appointment, had clearly been arguing with someone on the other end of the phone. Bucky had been careful not to pressure the man into anything, had been sure to stress that the first appointment was just a way to see if a service dog was even a right fit in the first place. And finally the man had agreed. 

He’s due to arrive at two, and at quarter til, Bucky hears the sound of voices from outside on the sidewalk. He can’t make out any individual words until they opened the door, but then he catches the tail end of what’s clearly an argument. 

“Admitting that you need some support isn’t a weakness, Tones.” The taller man has his hand on his companion’s shoulder, steering him through the open door.

“I’m already seeing that therapist you wanted,” cames the reply. “I’m going to that group, I’m talking about my feelings - I’m even taking the pills that make my head feel stuffed with cotton. What more do you want from me?” He sounds downright terrified as the question gets ripped from his throat, and Bucky can see his hands shaking all the way across the room. Bucky aches for the man, and the thought of whatever he’s gone through.

“I want you to feel safe, Tones,” the first man replies, so softly that Bucky can barely hear him. “I want you to be able to leave your house, and go jogging in the morning, and stop at that farmer’s market with the fancy peaches you love so much. I want you to get your life back.”

“I want that, too,” the man admits, and Bucky has to bite back a quiet cheer. 

He also takes that as his cue, stepping out from behind the front desk to approach the men with his hand held out. “Welcome to New Beginnings,” he greets them. “I’m Bucky, and you must be Tony?”

“Must be,” Tony says, his eyes darting around the room for a second before he slowly reaches out to shake Bucky’s hand. “This is Rhodey; he’s here to make sure I don’t run screaming out the door.”

“Nice to meet you,” Rhodey pipes up, shaking Bucky’s hand. “And who’s this?” he adds, as Gizmo pads out from behind the desk to sit at Bucky’s feet. 

“This is Gizmo,” Bucky replies, reaching down to pet the top of her head. “She’s my therapy dog. PTSD, specifically.” Looking at Tony, he added, “I don’t need to know what happened to be able to find you a dog, but I will need to know what you need your dog to do.”

“What do you mean, do?” Tony asks, quietly, and Bucky takes it as a good sign that he’s willing to ask the question even though he’s still so clearly freaked out by the whole thing.

“Service dogs are trained to do specific tasks to help out their handlers,” Bucky tells him. “For example, one of Gizmo’s tasks is to sit on me or press against me when I’m having a panic attack, because that kind of pressure can help me feel grounded.”

It hasn’t escaped his noticed that Rhodey has quietly taken a step back while he was talking, although the other man hasn’t taken his hand off Tony’s shoulder. If Bucky had to guess, he’d say that grounding is something that Tony’s anxiety responds to, and he starts quietly running through the dogs he’s got in training. He just needs a little more information.

“You mentioned on the phone that you have PTSD,” he prompts, gently, watching the way Tony goes pink at the word, like he’s ashamed. Not an uncommon reaction, unfortunately. “When you have a panic attack, is there something that helps more reliably than anything else?”

“Pressure, like you,” Tony admits, after a long moment. He lifts a hand to tangle his fingers briefly with Rhodey’s, and Bucky’s pleased to see that he’s not shaking like he had been. “Um, sometimes I get lost in my head, so having someone with me can help me come back to reality. But sometimes having people around can make things worse, which is why Rhodey thought of the service dog thing-”

“And you already knew about this place, which is why I convinced you to give ‘em a call,” Rhodey finished for him. 

“Oh?” Bucky asks, curious.

Tony shrugs, tensing up even though he’s clearly trying for nonchalant. “I’m in one of Sam Wilson’s therapy groups,” he says, “and he mentioned what you were doing, and I looked you up, and I made a donation. It’s nothing, really.” The words come out faster and faster until Bucky almost can’t understand him at the end, but he thinks he’s got the gist of it. 

“Well, thank you,” he replies, wracking his brain to try and remember if any of those donations had been from a Tony. A lot of them were marked anonymous, and Tony’s probably one of those, if his reaction is anything to go by. “Every donation we get helps us get more people connected with dogs.”

He starts leading them to the back while they’re talking, figuring he’ll see if Tony connects to any of the dogs he’s got in mind. They’re almost there when Tony’s cell phone rings, and he shoots Bucky an apologetic smile as he pulls it out of his pocket. 

“Sorry, I’ll be just a second,” he says, and then as he moves further back down the hallway, Bucky hears, “Tony Stark.”

Bucky can practically feel the floor drop out from under his feet. He staggers, catching the door frame to keep from falling, as he stares at the retreating back of the richest fucking man in the country. Bucky knows now, without a doubt, exactly which donation came from Tony, and just thinking about it is enough to make him lightheaded all over again.

“Do you have any idea,” he wheezes out, staring at Rhodey who’s giving him a concerned look, “exactly how much-”

He can’t even finish that sentence, can’t get the words out, but luckily Rhodey seems to understand what he’s saying.

“Yeah, sorry about that,” he says, shooting a fond look at the back of Tony’s head. “Tony sometimes doesn’t think about what typical amounts of money look like to him, compared to other people. He just sees things he can make better with money, so he does. And he’ll probably do it again. Fair warning.”

“I have someone to handle the money side of things, now,” Bucky says, “so it’s her problem, now.”

Tony finishes up his phone call quickly, and Bucky takes a deep breath to compose himself before Tony can rejoin him. By the time Tony stops in front of them, Bucky’s banished all traces of his momentary anxiety, not willing to let his own nerves potentially make things harder for Tony. 

“So, anyway, I have a couple dogs I think would work well with you,” he says, nodding at the door. “The dogs are outside playing, but I’ll bring them in one at a time, let you get acquainted.”

Opening the door, he gestures for Tony and Rhodey to go into the room. Then, he ducks outside to the play area, where one of his teenage staffers is supervising play time. Peter waves from where he’s sitting with one of the newest dogs in his lap. Bucky whistles sharply, getting the attention of nearly every dog in the yard, and then he calls Luna over and clips a leash on her collar. 

Luna’s his first pick for Tony, and he honestly thinks he won’t have to introduce him to any other dogs. Luna’s large enough for effective grounding, large enough to nudge strangers away when they get too close to Tony. She’s calm and quiet, watching things around her without getting excited. Bombproof - almost literally considering some of the stuff she’s encountered on her walks through New York. 

He leads Luna into the room, shutting the door quietly behind them. Then, he lets her see Tony but lets her pick the pace to go over to him. A service dog is a partnership, and not one he wants to force if the dog’s not feeling it. But, he didn’t need to worry. 

Luna loves meeting new people and she’s over to Tony and Rhodey like a shot, tail wagging and ears perked. She sits politely in front of them, waiting for a command, and Tony reaches out to her with a hand that’s rock-steady. After she sniffs his fingers, he goes in for an ear scratch, burying his fingers in her fur. Bucky bites back a laugh when he sees the blissful expressions on both dog and person. 

“Well, she likes you,” Bucky says, “and that’s a really good first sign.”

“What’s the next step?” Tony asks, still petting Luna while she practically melts in a puddle at his feet. 

“Next step, we take the two of you through some basic training commands, to see how she responds to you,” Bucky replies. “And if that goes well, we’ll start working on training the two of you to work together.”

“You think it’ll go well?” Tony asks, like there’s any doubt from the adoring look Luna’s giving him. 

“I think it’s already going well,” Bucky corrects him, and getting a small smile in return. “I think you two were made for each other.”


End file.
